Facts About The book:

Roll of Thunder, 

Hear my cry, 

Hear my moan, 

And hear my sigh. 

What have I done to deserve this? 

I am an innocent child. 

My mother shouting, 

My brother fighting, 

And my sister is crying.

Poem #2:

Invictus  Launch Audio in a New Window

BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

 Related

Mama?

Mama was silent for a moment

Mama

I saw her outline in the doorway, a rifle in her hands..

I was left to the darkness.

I waited

Blackness

Mixed with the night

Began to fade

Big Ma’s presence lulled me in to security 

That 

I did not feel

I fell asleep

"Can I have another one?" 

Ms. Cocker turned into flames and yelled, "You should be grateful to the young man." 

My book was covered with doodles and a ripped cover, but what I saw when I turned the cover was even worse.

A chart showed the quality of the books and whom it would go to, and what got me mad was that the blacks would get the worst books. I was filled with anger and wanted to punch something. Why would they give us a bad book just because of our race? We are just living like everyone else. Sometimes I wish I had the same rights as the whites. Then I could have a good education and a good book. I wanted to get rid of this book because I would see how we get the worst books every time I turned the cover. I slammed the book on the floor and stomped on it. I ignored Ms. Crocker's yelled and kept on stomping. I felt pretty good about stomping the book, but then I felt hands pull me up from the ground. I saw that Cassey was standing up for me. She was telling Ms. Croker about what was behind the cover, but Ms Croker didn't listen. She just got more angry. After everything I was relieved I didn’t die but also mad. Why would people like me get poor books and white people get new books, we never did anything. However, I was happy I got out of this mess alive thanks to Casey. I just wish one day everyone could be equal.

Rahul Kadia

Mood changes rapidly

Anger, needs revenge

Forced and pushed down

Goes down in the woods

Fury trickles down 

Kicks are kicked

Punches are thrown

The winner is Cassie

Queen of the throne

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/life-doesnt-frighten-me-by-maya-angelou

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/i-know-why-the-caged-bird-sings-by-maya-angelou

“Today I stopped trying to be 'someone' for somebody
who never thought of me as anyone appreciated and important to them.”

“Inside I know the space I had for them is now crushed and broken.”

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poems/friend/lost/

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poems/friend/lost/

BY MAYA ANGELOU

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind   

and floats downstream   

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and   

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

Freedom

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

Freedom will not come

Today, this year

            Nor ever

Through compromise and fear.

 

I have as much right

As the other fellow has

            To stand

On my two feet

And own the land.

 

I tire so of hearing people say,

Let things take their course.

Tomorrow is another day.

I do not need my freedom when I’m dead.

I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread.

            Freedom

            Is a strong seed

            Planted

            In a great need.

            I live here, too.

            I want my freedom

            Just as you. 

Here's the article: (some of the stories have swearing and the n-word)

This is from a reader in Atlanta:

In 1982, when I was 13 years old, I wanted to go to a comic book store in a section of Brooklyn called Canarsie. At the time Canarsie was ethnic white working class. I got off at the bus stop and started walking to the comic book store. A car stopped and a man got out and yelled at me to get out of his neighborhood. I distinctly remember him telling me, “If I came to your neighborhood I would be jumped.”

As I walked away I turned back to look at him going into his car to get a stick or some kind of blunt instrument. I realized then that he wanted to make sure I never came back to his neighborhood again. He chased me down the street. While running I saw an elderly white woman and her black caretaker sitting outside. I ran towards them and the man turned around and walked away.

This one is an reader in central florida:

Crazy. Today is Sunday, July 5th. About two hours ago, I saw a tweet from Bomani Jones about Ta-Nehisi’s piece “Letter to My Son” and read it of course. It was a break from some work I was completing. I saw the request for personal stories about “The Talk.” (One of the commandments my mother gave me: When I get pulled over, pull over in a populated area so there will be witnesses.) I thought I would email a story later this week. I resumed my work but realized I needed a book I had left at the office. It’s about 20 minutes from my house, so I hopped in the car.

The ride there was smooth, as I listened to the new Jazzy Jeff/🤬 Boogie mixtape “Summertime Vol 6.” On the way back, I turned onto an arterial road with a speed limit of 45 MPH. Then I saw a police car trying to ride in what would normally be my blind spot. I figured he was trying to check me for speeding, which I was not. He stayed there for a while, then he got behind me, but kept a good distance. I figured he was running my tags and would find nothing. I stopped at the next light. When the light turned green, his lights went on, joined by another police vehicle that had gotten behind him.

I cross the intersection, still not thinking they will pull me over. At the intersection there’s a gas station. I pull into it and adjacent to the car wash. Both vehicles follow me in. I am 35 and have been pulled over plenty of times. Too many times. I am a vet, so I roll my window down, put the car in park and turn off the engine. One of the officers is yelling commands, so I look in my side view and see that he has his gun drawn.

He yells “Put your right hand out of the window.” I already have both hands out of the window. “Open the door with your right hand.” I go to use my left hand, which would be easier given that he wants me to open my door from the outside. He yells it again. I do it his way. Then he tells me to get out of the car.

I get out, face the officers and ask them “What’s the problem? What’s going on? Why is your gun drawn?” Not given any answers, I’m told to turn around, keep my hands up, use my right hand to lift the collar of my t-shirt to show that I do not have a gun tucked in my waistband. Even though I have been pulled over plenty of times, all of these instructions are starting to sound like a bad Twister game.

Then I’m told to walk backwards. The gun is still pointed at me. Then the pat-down ensues. I ask my same questions. I’m finally told that someone, driving a car like mine, pulled a gun on someone in the neighborhood. The other officer walks to my vehicle. He asks for my ID. My wallet is on my front passenger seat, a fact that the other officer concurs from walking around my car.

We walk up to my car so I can get my ID. I am fuming. I get my wallet and slam my door. “Calm down, I could be worse,” says the other officer. I say, “I’m stopped here. Gun drawn on me. You’re right. I could be shot.” He responds, “You don't understand.” I bite my tongue before I go off. I don’t understand? It’s a Sunday afternoon and here I am standing in a gas station parking lot, with my hands on my head, after having a gun pulled on me and patted down by an officer, all while another officer circled my vehicle with his hand on his weapon. He had a point; I guess the threat of being shot is better than being shot.

The officer says to me, “Do you live around here?” I reply “No.” He’s holding my ID, which has my address printed on it. “Do you have friends and family around here?” “Yes.” “Don’t you want us checking out reports of guns being pulled on people?” I don’t answer. Why respond to stupid stuff like that? He hands me back my ID. I get into my vehicle, turn on my car, A/C, Summertime Vol. 6, check my mirrors and drive out of the gas station.

The path I drive to exit takes me past the two officers and their vehicles. They haven’t left yet. The second officer is leaning into the passenger window of the first officer and they are talking. I guess going to find the “real criminal” driving around in a car like mine isn’t that important.

From another reader, in northern California:

I’m a member of the Horde and used to comment as Baiskeli. I came to the U.S. as an African immigrant when I was 18. I was familiar with racism, coming from a former British colony where structures laid in place during colonialism still propagate themselves. But I never felt racism as viscerally as I did when a cop pointed a gun at me three months after arriving in the U.S.

I had the misfortune of jogging early in the morning through my almost all-white neighborhood in small city near Boston. There was no crime in progress; a cop just thought I looked suspicious, pointed a gun at me and forced me to the ground while peppering his orders with lots of curse words. He demanded ID and grilled me about “what I was doing in the neighborhood.” Then he left me with a sarcastic “have a nice day.”

Since then I’ve had a few more incidents—“random” driving stops, job and rental discrimination, etc—but none as visceral as that incident. The really scary incidents have been interactions with police. In 2004, my white wife (fiancee at the time) and I were walking where she lived in Brookline and a cop driving the other way did a quick U-turn and drove up almost on the curb. He asked my wife “Are you OK?” and she replied “umm, yes.” He asked her again and then gave her a look of disgust and me a glare that could kill, and then roared off.

What does it mean when people whom we entrust with the ultimate power—the power to take life—view certain people like us not worthy of basic rights, as automatically suspect? (Though quite a few times the treatment improved as soon as people realize I’m a first generation African immigrant vs African-American, which shows the depth of hate/distrust reserved for African Americans.) One of the ways I’ve dealt with it has been reading a lot of American history—especially centered around the Civil War and Reconstruction—and Ta-Nehisi’s blog was an invaluable resource.

Strawberry Roberry

Lately in Strawberry, shopkeeper Mr. Barnett was killed by a group of boys robbing his store. The boys smashed an axe on his head and abused his wife. Sheriff only caught one of the boys, T.J. Avery, and he is now in bars. 

Everyone FUMED after cotton fire

Also, a fire started in a family owned cotton field. Everyone helped to put it out, even Mr. Granger, and Wallaces. I think the reason they were helping the African Americanswas not because they were NICE, but because they thought it would spread to their houses.

Trying to ROLL with it

Local man, and owner of a cotton field was shot and run over by a horse wagon. Another man, and a boy were there with the injured father when it happened. A truck drove over to them and tried to shoot the father. The boy let go of the wagon, and it rolled over his father’s leg. After, the father’s leg was broken, and he was shot, but he wasn’t injured from the bullet.

“Harlan Granger says he doesn't want you to hang him on his property,” the sheriff said. But they did it anyway. TJ was hanged as well as his family. The Logans watched from the woods in silence. They never really got over watching him get hanged. Even the fact that Granger sued the Wallaces for hanging him there did not change the fact that they lost a friend and his family. 

    30 years later, Cassie Logan put her experiences in a book and sold them in the North. She enjoyed being able to help spread change. She never forgot TJ.